


Ever Fallen In Love

by confundedgryffindor



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Muggle, Implied Child Abuse, M/M, Modern Setting, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, prongsfoot - Freeform, slowburn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:27:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25568992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confundedgryffindor/pseuds/confundedgryffindor
Summary: “Quick,” Sirius says, “hold my hand so he gets jealous.”“He’s not even looking your way,” James says.“Hold my fucking hand Jimmy.”
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 10
Kudos: 108





	Ever Fallen In Love

**Author's Note:**

> for some reason i keep posting chaptered works, knowing full well that i have two other chaptered fics that i need to finish even.  
> anyway here's sirius being a dumbass.

Sirius and James are in the bathtub in Marlene McKinnon’s house. The bathtub is dry, and James and Sirius are fully clothed, but here they can smoke weed with the crystallised window cracked open and groan every once in a while as if they’re taking turns of taking massive shits and pretend that the foul smell from the weed is, in fact, the smell of said pretend shits. 

It seemed like a weird plan half an hour ago, but James had said, _it might just be weird enough to work._ And now that they’re at the butt end of the joint, taking one puff each before passing it, ready to toss it out of the window, it seems like the best idea James has ever had. 

It’s in here, seated in the bathtub with their gangly legs hanging over the edge, that they can escape Mary McDonald running around her friend’s house with a bin liner in hand, hollering about throwing empty cans and bottles in there so she and Marlene doesn’t have to bother with cleaning the house in the morning. It’s in here they can smoke, and Sirius can just take a fucking breather from sweaty bodies and see the silhouette of Remus clinging to Benjy Fenwick’s side as if he’s been superglued to him. 

“Fucking… Fenwick,” Sirius murmurs, eyes closed with his head against the cold bathroom tiles. “Benjy… Fuckwick…”

James snorts a laugh so aggressive Sirius thinks it must hurt the roof of his mouth. “Benjy Fuckwick?”

Sirius cracks an eye open and looks at James. He’s got tight, red braids in his hair, tied up in a top knot that looks far too cool for the rest of him; khaki trousers and a Hawaiian shirt with some poker print on it. He’s actually quite hot sometimes, though Sirius will never admit that out loud; he’s going to die on a hill, knowing that he made fun of James and his looks until his dying breath.

“Yeah.” Sirius shuts his eyes again, swallows hard and feels his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. “Fuckwick. Stealing Remus from me, like some… fuck.”

“Excuse me?” James says with a loud laugh. “ _Stealing?!_ Have you actually said more than 4 sentences to Remus this term? Or are we still at the pining stage?”

Sirius is quiet for a while, then turns to James. “And where are you with Evans?”

James huffs, then says, “I’ll have you know that we have gotten to _under shirt_ business.”

“Sounds absolutely revolting. I pity Evans for having to feel up on your ribcage and erect nips.”

The words _erect nips_ sits weird on Sirius’ tongue, and it takes about half a second for him to burst out laughing after he’s said it. James stares at him for a few seconds, then bursts out laughing himself. 

Laughing when he’s high might be the worst feeling in the world, if Sirius is honest. It sticks in his chest and if he opens his mouth he might scream or vomit, so he laughs with his mouth closed, letting out weird puffs of air, shoulders shaking. James, however, absolutely hollers with laughter, banging his fist against the bathtub.

“OI!” there’s a bang on the door. “Get the fuck out of there you shits! Some people need to take a fucking piss!”

The banging continues, fists rapping against the bathroom door so hard it rattles in its frame. 

“Alright, alright!” Sirius shouts. “Hold your fuckin’ horses.”

He clambers out of the bathtub first, boots smacking against more tiles. Briefly, he pities Marlene and Mary for the cleaning spree they’ll have to go on in the morning, but then James is up on his feet and opens the bathroom door, and Sirius suddenly doesn’t care. 

Dorcas Meadowes stands there, eyes like fucking thunder and shoulders squared. She sniffs the air, stares into Sirius’ eyes, and huffs.

“Couldn’t you fucking stoners just gone into the garden like everyone else?”

“Everyone else?” James echoes. He looks stupid. Sirius makes a mental note of telling him that once Meadowes leaves.

“Christ,” she murmurs. “You’re not the only ones who smoke weed in our grade.”

“But we’re the only one with standards on our grass, Meadowes,” Sirius says. “Now. We best be off so you can take your fucking piss, eh? See you darling.”

He hooks his arm around James’ shoulders and trudges off, ignoring the way Meadowes scoffs again after them. And right there, smack in the middle of the sitting room, Remus stands, laughing at something with a red solo cup in hand—it’s extraordinarily cliche, and it feels like it’s only something you see on American high school dramas, but there Remus stands. 

Benjy Fuckwick has his arm around his waist, and Sirius wants to gag. He doesn’t. 

Instead he drops his arm from James’ shoulders and holds his hand out for him instead. 

“Quick,” Sirius says, “hold my hand so he gets jealous.” 

“He’s not even looking your way,” James says.

“Hold my fucking hand Jimmy.”

“Jesus, hakuna your tatas,” James murmurs, but grabs Sirius’ hand anyway. 

It’s dry and warm and feels like a fucking frying pan in Sirius’ slender hand. Sirius looks at James, then at Remus, and starts howling with laughter to grab his attention. 

And it works. Remus looks at him, eyebrows furrowed, and Sirius would smirk if he wasn’t busy laughing at absolutely nothing. He leans against James, leaning his head against his shoulder and tries to look in love and sappy and stupid like Remus does around Benjy. Fucking Benjy Fuckwick, and his stupid perfect blond hair and straight teeth and straight nose. 

Remus keeps his eyes on Sirius, and Sirius stares back, smiling before he presses a dry kiss to James’ neck.

“Ew, what the fuck was that for?” James says. Sirius thinks he’s glaring but he can’t see, he’s too busy staring at Remus, getting his attention and—

“Making him jealous,” Sirius mutters, and he hopes that the way his heart flutters in his chest and the way his cheeks get warm and the way he thinks about Remus—in his bed, clothed or naked, laughing with him and running his hands through Sirius’ hair—is exactly what Remus thinks, what he feels. 

He probably doesn’t. Remus is with Fuckwick and is probably super happy and doesn’t ever want to leave him to leave. They probably fuck in missionary position just to look each other in the eyes and fall asleep next to one another like some sappy couple on the telly. 

Sirius feels nauseous. Like a tickle in his throat, on his tongue, up to his nose. It’s sort of irrational, his crush on Remus. They’re barely friends; only study partners in maths, except Remus can’t do math for shit so Sirius has to explain with voice cracks and stutters and watch Remus fail miserably anyway. Outside of _you take X and multiply it by 20,_ they don’t speak. But Remus’ tawny hair and hazel eyes and crooked teeth and crooked smile and the scatter of pimples on his cheeks are fucking _intoxicating_ and Sirius hates himself for being so… _in love_ with him when he has a boyfriend. 

Sirius sighs. “Aight,” he says and detangles himself from James. “Shall we do our leave?”

“Aye,” James says with a nod. “Mine or yours?”

“Mine, obviously. Your parents will probably kill you if you come home smelling like an entire weed farm.”

“Fair enough.”

Sirius is 17 and lives alone and it might be the most stupid thing he’s ever been allowed to do. It’s not like his parents care, and it is relatively clean most of the time—save for cigarette butts and beer cans scattered across his one bedroom flat a bit haphazardly—but he can’t cook. It took him a week of extensive googling and four white t-shirts turned pink and two sizes too small for him to learn how to do laundry and about a month of having the same towels in the bathroom before he realised that the funky smell that got on his hands and the way the towel seemed to remain damp after a few uses meant that it needed to be changed. He’s got most of it figured out now.

He can make Effie’s fried chicken, waffles and pasta with tinned sauce, toast, coffee and tinned ravioli, which might not be good for him or very nice tasting—excluding the chicken—but it works. He’s not starving.

It’s a bus ride from McKinnon’s house to Sirius’ flat, one that feels like five seconds of snickering and people staring at the pale spots in James’ face and arms. That’s also a beautiful thing about James—vitiligo. Part of his right eyebrow is completely white and Sirius absolutely loves it, but he never says it. Because Sirius is going to die on a hill of bullying James but he refuses to bully an insecurity James has grown to love, so he doesn’t comment at all. 

The two if them stumble up the stairs to Sirius’ flat and James unties both his and Sirius’ shoes as thin fingers fumble clumsily with keys, pushes them into the lock and twists.

Their shoes are kicked across the hallway the second they step inside. Sirius’ boots hit the wall and he’s sure James’ left sneaker lands in his bathroom, but he doesn’t care. Not right now.

“Toast or sleep?” he asks. James takes a deep breath.

“My gut says toast,” he says, “but the rest of my body says sleep.”

“Agreed,” Sirius says with a nod. “Sofa, floor or cuddle pile on bed?”

James is silent for a few seconds, then unbuttons his God awful Hawaiian shirt with the poker print. “Sofa. You cling and twitch to much in your sleep.”

“Alright, knob.”

Both he and James venture to the bed-livingroom-kitchenette, tiredly stripping from their clothes as they go. James collapses on the sofa and grabs the mostly decorative blanket hanging off the armrest, wraps himself up like some stupid human burrito, red braids as a topping. 

“Night, arsehole.”

“Night,” Sirius says, and throws himself into bed.

* * *

Mondays suck. Just, generally, absolutely suck horseshit. 

Sirius has spent Sunday in sweats and a hoodie, playing Minecraft on his PS4 with James, Peter and Caradoc on Discord, as if seeing the three of them in school everyday isn’t enough. 

They’re in the cafeteria—Peter with his beautifully packed lunch his mum makes him each morning, James with leftover curry and poppadoms that stank up the whole school microwave and got him several dirty looks from a multitude of people, Sirius with a Caesar salad he paid far too much for when he doesn’t even like Caesar dressing that much, and Caradoc with a sad crisp sandwich and a coke. 

Sirius stabs his fork into piece of chicken that’s absolutely drenched in dressing, but sticks it in his mouth anyway. There’s some sort of conversation going around the table, with James hollering about something that doesn’t sound like words in Sirius’ ears. He’s not paying attention. He _can’t_ pay attention, because two tables over Remus is laughing with Alice Fortescue and Daniel Wood. There’s a cigarette stuck in his beanie and he’s wearing one of those hipster jumpers that’s a revolting orangey-brown, yet still it looks good on him. 

Sirius hates how he sort of loves him. Or the image of him, the idea of him and what they could do together and what they could could be.

“Right, Sirius?” James’ words pulls him back to their table, their world where Peter has a spoon in his mouth and seems to fight with the lid of his yoghurt cup. 

“What?” 

“We’re gonna find another party this weekend, eh?”

“Why the fuck are you thinking about this now? It’s Monday, you insatiable alcoholic.”

“Speaking of parties,” Peter says, waving the plastic lid to his yoghurt cup around and flinging some into Caradoc’s hair in the process, “I heard that two certain people were holding hands and kissing at McKinnon’s party this Saturday.”

James glares at Sirius, and he smirks back. 

“We didn’t _kiss,_ ” James says. “Sirius just wanted to make Remus jealous.”

“You still simping for that guy?” Caradoc asks, and Sirius glares at him.

“Jar,” he says, instead of giving a decent reply. The four of them have a list of banned words for each of them—Caradoc’s list is the longest, followed by James, then Sirius, then Peter—and when a _banned word_ is said, they put everything from a pound to 10 pounds in a jar. Except the jar is at Sirius’ and each time a banned word is said, Sirius accidentally ends up pocketing the money.

“No fucking way,” Caradoc says. “What for?”

“Simp,” Sirius replies. James pulls his phone up, pushing his classes up with his free thumb.

“Aye,” he says with a nod and shoves his phone in Caradoc’s face. “Here, number fifteen, _simp._ ”

“You fucking suck,” Caradoc mutters. He sticks his hand into his pocket, digs around for a few seconds, then hands Sirius one pound and 57 pence. 

“Speaking of,” James says, then. “We’re adding a new word to Sirius’ list.”

Sirius’ mouth falls half open. He’s a half-chewed piece of lettuce in his mouth he hasn’t swallowed yet and it must look absolutely revolting judging by the look on Peter’s face. “What?”

“Technically it’s two words.” James’ thumb taps against his phone screen. “ _Erect nips_.”

* * *

Sirius watches as James inhales a cigarette behind school. James always smokes like each drag is his last one, and one of those extra long cigarettes are always burnt to the very butt within five minutes. It’s ridiculous. 

Sirius just stands there, hands in his pockets and bouncing on the balls of his feet, inhaling the smoke James puffs out like the miserable second hand smoker he is. At least today, because there’s only one cig left in his packet and he’s too ashamed to ask James for one _again_ , like he’s fucking financially dependent on the guy when he actually does have money in his bank account. 

Though it’s just fifteen pounds and cigarettes are expensive, but he has the money at least. Two weeks, and he’ll get money from his parents for rent and like a two weeks of food. Until then he’s living on tutoring money and the jar money he accidentally pockets on purpose. 

“You wanna get fish and chips after school?” James asks. 

“I literally have no money, Jim,” Sirius replies, drily and bitterly. 

“I’ll pay.”

“You will not.”

“Yes, I will.”

“James, I will carve your eyes out with a grapefruit spoon if you pay for one more thing for me.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m probably in, like, two hundred pounds debt with you alone and it’s fucking embarrassing that you keep paying for my bullshit like you’re my sugar daddy.”

James raises his eyebrows. “Do you want me to be your sugar daddy?”

Sirius splutters. “What--? No, I don’t want you to fucking-- What kind of bullshit question is that?” 

James shrugs a shoulder with a smirk and playfully smacks Sirius’ arse. Sirius yelps and jumps to the side, glaring at James so viciously that he could melt him with that very gaze, and James just stands there like the idiot he is with that smirk on his lips. 

“You disgust me,” Sirius says. “Now hold my hand in case we run into Remus and Benjy Fuckwick on our way to history.”

They don’t. Because they’re probably too busy snogging in the old geography classroom at the top of the building and laugh against one another’s lips and something else that’s super gay and super disgusting when it’s not him and Remus doing that. Whatever. Sirius isn’t even slightly bothered. 

He and James sit at the front of the classroom because James is close to legally blind and Sirius suspects he might need glasses too because he can’t really see the board when he sits too far back. Caradoc and Peter sit behind them because Mrs. Trelawney hasn’t realised yet that most of the disturbance in the class comes from the four of them whispering together like the gossip boys they are. 

Mrs. Trelawney takes attendance in her wispy, eerie voice that sort of sounds like it should belong to a forest fae, and as soon as she’s past B--Black, Sirius--he tunes out. Treats her voice like a white noise machine of buzz he doesn’t care about. Because he hates history.

He hates everything in the past; the pain and the grey days and the way nothing seems to be anything more than plagues and wars and dramatic retellings of how Henry the Eighth beheaded his women, or whatever. He hates thinking one year back; thinking about his own past when he showed up to school with a different bruise each week, and once, a cast from his wrist to his elbow. And everytime he came with some bullshit story about how he fell down the stairs or that Regulus accidentally kicked a football in his face and then tried to hold the tears in at night when it hurt to lay on his side because of the bruises. 

He hasn’t told anyone, but Sirius figures his friends kind of figured it all out on their own when the bruises stopped showing up after he got his own flat. He’s fine now. No one needs to know about the past because his past is just as irrelevant as the last witch burning in Europe. It’s all fucking irrelevant. 

After school, James drags him to the chippy, completely ignoring every single protest Sirius chokes out, orders them each a fish and chips—extra vinegar for James, because he’s gross—and beckons Sirius to sit next to him on a bench outside.

“I’m taking Lily on a date tomorrow,” James says. Sirius raises his eyebrows.

“Where?” 

“Cinema,” James says simply, then he sticks three chips in his mouth at once and says, “I almost asked her if she wanted cheeky nandos but then I realised that it’s not very romantic.”

Sirius snorts and does his best to cut up his fish with the side of his plastic fork. James has given up on his fork and his eating his fish like the fucking weirdo he is.

“It really isn’t,” Sirius says. 

James nods. “We’re going to the cinema and if the night goes well, she might stay the night.”

“Oh God,” Sirius murmurs.

“What?”

“Effie is going to slide condoms and lube under your door.”

James is silent for a moment, chewing on a chip before he says, “Oh lord.”

* * *

Sirius is sitting cross-legged by the bushes in the courtyard by his flat, joint in hand. He doesn’t care in the slightest that it’s 3 in the morning on a school day or that he’ll forget to bring lunch to school or that he’s got a history test first thing in the morning. 

And he’s certainly not thinking. He’s definitely not thinking about that text message his mum sent him earlier that night in some fit of narcissistic rage or mania or whatever the fuck it is that’s going on in her head. _I have started telling our acquaintances that you are dead._

_I have been burning sage by your room to rid the house of your foul spirits._

Sirius doesn’t know what she’s trying to achieve by writing something like that; if she wants an angry response or a call or if she wants him to come back home and prove that he still wants to be a part of the family. 

But it’s fine. Sirius is perfectly fine. He’s just waiting to finish his joint so he can go back up and sleep through his alarms and maybe even ignore school tomorrow—or today, really—and sit at home with David Bowie blaring in his speakers and Minecraft up on his PS4. He’s so fucking flippant about the texts still lighting up his home screen that he doesn’t even care about maintaining his grades like his mum wants him to.

So yeah. Sirius is perfectly fucking fine.


End file.
